Page 81 of Home Grown Talent
Just then, he caught sight of Mason, standing off to the side, looking at his phone. For what felt like the first time in days, he cracked a smile. They’d put Mason in some sort of navy-blue fisherman’s-smock-thing over denim cut-off shorts and dark blue deck shoes. It was a ridiculous outfit but, well, Mason could pretty much carry anything off, and he looked just as hot as ever.
Owen jogged over to him. “Are you gardening or sailing today?”
Mason looked up, and the immediate, instinctive smile that spread over his face at seeing Owen made Owen’s heart feel like it was being squeezed by a giant fist. A moment later, the smile shifted into a mischievous grin.
“I know, right?” He shoved his phone in the front pouch of the smock. “I quite like this big pocket, though,” he said. “There’s tons of room in here. Enough for a packed lunch.”
“You look like a very sexy French sailor,” Owen rumbled, moving in closer for a kiss. But when Mason flicked a nervous glance at the crew, he stilled. “Something wrong?”
Mason’s expression grew uncomfortable. “There’s a couple of new people here today, so we should probably keep things on the down-low.”
For a moment, Owen felt a stab of gratitude. Mason had listened to him then. Had heard what he’d said about wanting to keep their relationship more private. But then Mason added, “I think we should try to work the are they/aren’t they angle as long as we can, you know? Shippers always say they want couples to get together, but the fact is it’s the anticipation they like the best.”
Disappointed, Owen just stared at him, saying nothing. Eventually, Mason seemed to pick up on his mood. “What’s wrong?” he said. Then his puzzled expression hardened into something that looked like guilty defiance. “Sorry, am I being too shallow for you again? Excuse me for having a career.”
Owen sighed and turned away. “I think I’ll grab a coffee.”
“Owen—” Mason said behind him, but Owen kept walking, making his way over to where the crew was standing. It was only then, as he moved into the middle of the plot, that he noticed the changes. He came to a halt between two raised beds, gazing down at them in confusion.
“What the hell?”
“What do you think?” Misty said, grinning widely as she approached him. “Pretty amazing growth for three weeks, right?”
Owen glanced up, taking in her self-satisfied look. “You’ve replanted these beds,” he said, in disbelief.
“The magic of television,” Misty said smugly. “We need to show more progress than real life allows for, I’m afraid. Luckily, there’s a plant nursery near me so we bought up a bunch of the plants you put in during the first filming session and swapped them out.”
Owen frowned, pointing at a row of foxgloves, and said, “Those aren’t delphiniums. We planted delphiniums—those are totally different!”
“Near enough,” Misty said dismissively. “Trust me, Owen, I know television, and—”
“And I know bloody gardening,” Owen interrupted. “We had a whole bit in last week’s slot showing me planting delphiniums and talking about them and how long they’d take to grow, and you’ve planted something completely different in their place! People will think I’m an idiot!”
Misty’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she said, her voice hardening. “Nobody will remember what you said. Viewers aren’t interested in the details. They’re interested in the story. They’re buying into the idea of a hot guy spending his Saturday morning gardening with his cute, twinky boyfriend before taking him indoors to bend him over and—”
“Don’t talk about Mason like that!” Owen snapped, cutting her off. Just then, a hand touched his elbow, and he turned to see Mason standing beside him, his brows drawn together in concern.
“Calm down,” Mason said, frowning. “You don’t need to get angry on my account.” He glanced at Misty. “Come on. You can see it from his point of view, right? Owen’s a professional. His reputation is important to him. Even if most viewers don’t notice, he’ll notice.”
Misty rolled her eyes. “Let’s keep this in proportion. It doesn’t need to be a big deal. We didn’t replace everything, just the plants in these two beds—which were bloody tiny by the way—and I’m sure most of them are the same ones you two planted last time.”
Owen opened his mouth to respond, but when Mason sent him a pleading look, he pressed his lips together.
“Okay, how about this,” Misty said briskly. “We start by getting some footage with these new plants, and then for the rest of the day, we go back to your plan on what we’re covering. Fair?”
It wasn’t fair. Owen had spent hours—bloody days actually—planning this garden and how he could use the different elements to actually teach some useful lessons while creating a pleasing space. Mason had done loads of graft too, contributing his ideas on the produce side and typing up all those detailed notes that Misty had seemed so happy with at first. And now she was changing the goalposts at a whim. He opened his mouth to say as much, but when he clocked Mason’s tense expression, he subsided.
“Fine,” he said tightly. “But I decide which plants in these beds we talk about, and if I want to mention that you’ve transplanted older plants in, I will.”
“That sounds fair,” Mason said, looking at Misty hopefully.
Misty eyed him for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder. “All right,” she said, casting an unfriendly look at Owen. “You’re the gardening expert.”
“I am,” Owen got out through clenched teeth.
She gave a small, tight smile. “Just remember—I’m the TV expert.”
The next two hours were wearing. With Misty watching, Owen struggled to get back into the easy back-and-forth vibe he and Mason had established last time. He was still pissed off, and he hated the way Misty rode roughshod over everyone else, constantly overruling Lucy’s decisions and issuing orders.